Page 74 of Surfer's Paradise

She didn’t respond but just curled into the pillow and the sheets. Eyes closed. Just lay there, breathing heavy, motionless, spent.

He grinned, kissing the curve of her spine before finally pulling away, giving her one last slap on the ass as he pushed off the bed.

“Fuck, I needed that,” he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair.

Still half-hard from how fucking good that was, but he had to move. It was late as hell, and he was already pushing it for work. He grabbed a clean towel from the dresser, wiped himself off, ran a quick hand over his jaw.

Rosie still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t said a word.

“Careful, baby,” he said, tossing the towel in the hamper, already heading for the door. “You might actually get addicted to this.”

Still—nothing.

No smirk, no eye roll, no usual snappy comeback.

Just her lying there, quiet, still, staring at nothing.

Isaac figured she was just fucked out, still processing, probably in that post-orgasm haze where her brain had short-circuited.

No big deal.

She’d be fine.

“Keep my bed warm for me, Coco.” Isaac smirked, watching her from the doorway.

Finally, she turned, and said, “Okay.”

That little grin was enough for him. If he had more time he’d be there trying to kiss her senseless again. But he didn’t. He was fucking late. So he turned and left, leaving a brand new situation behind him.

Chapter 14

Rosie sat in the waiting area of Taylor West Capital, an investment firm and private equity group with its fingers in real estate, technology, fine art acquisitions, and luxury hospitality ventures. The firm was Greg Taylor’s empire, an empire worth billions.

The office was perched on the top floor of one of the tallest, sleekest buildings in downtown San Diego—Pacific Point Tower, a glass monolith with sweeping ocean views, just a short drive from the Marina District and the Gaslamp Quarter.

Rosie shifted in her seat, crossing her legs, rolling the condensation of her water bottle between her palms.

She was hot.

Not in the sexy way, but in the San Diego-in-July, sun-scorching-the-pavement, air-heavy-with-heat kind of way.

The office’s AC was crisp, a relief after the blistering walk from the parking garage, her dark jeans sticking to her skin, the silk of her blouse too thin to help much.

Her black stilettos tapped lightly against the polished floor as she took in her surroundings.

Everything here screamed money.

The waiting area was all clean lines and quiet wealth— a white leather couch, sleek black marble tables, fresh white orchids arranged in a way that made it clear someone was paid a lot to make them look effortlessly perfect.

The walls were mostly glass, overlooking the city below, but where there was drywall, there was art.

Real art. Serious art.

One of the pieces was a Mark Rothko, the deep, moody hues practically swallowing up the wall behind the assistant’s desk.

Another—a modern sculpture in a minimalist glass case, something that probably cost more than every single paycheck she’d ever made combined.

Rosie exhaled, pressing the cold bottle of water against her throat for a second.

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